doux comme l'amour
by thefrostedrose
Summary: Part 3 of the tea series:: Three unrelated drabbles :: once again, for Tonya :: previous generation


_So this is the last part of the tea series. I'm glad I finally wrote this, after playing with the idea for awhile. I've been trying to plan out this last installment for awhile, but who knows how it will turn out. If you remember, there are three cups of tea in Moroccan tea tradition: the first, with no sugar, called 'amer comme la mort' - bitter like death. The second has some sugar, and is called 'bon comme la vie', or good like life. The last cup has a lot of sugar, and is called 'doux comme l'amour' - sweet like love. As always, for Tonya, who is wonderful and talented and gorgeous and creative and a lovely person and I am infinitely honored to call her my friend. _

* * *

Really, she doesn't even know who he is.

But he's standing in front of her with a bouquet of burgundy roses, asking her out, and really, when did her life turn into an eighties teen movie? Not that she particularly minds, of course, but still.

She was always a romantic at heart, and a fan of big (if not clichéd) romantic gestures, so sure, she accepts his offer. He's cute, and he looks a bit like a puppy and really, she doesn't know if she could stand seeing him upset.

The first date is a train wreck, for lack of a stronger term. She's allergic to the flowers in the restaurant, they mess up her order, he gets the stomach flu (she really isn't sure if it's from his risotto or her lack of conversational skills).

Also, they have nothing in common, so. That's great.

And really, she has no intention of seeing him ever again, but then they get partnered together on a mission to Beirut.

And then they get married. Funny, how things work out like that.

But that isn't to say they aren't without their issues. I mean, he's trying to take down an ancient terrorist organization with his best friend for reasons that she couldn't really name, and she has this desperate need to always be safe and secure and even though she loves him still, she doubts (though she shouldn't).

But for the most part, everything's pretty okay (better than great, actually. Superb). They found a healthy, normal, fairytale life and romance away from the CIA and all this espionage. And they have a daughter who's more like her father than her and everything is normal and _perfect_.

But fairy tales aren't real.

And he dies.

And really, she should've expected this in their line of work (funny, how it's still _their_ even though it's really just _her_). It still hits her like a brick, though.

She remembers back to that first date, and she can still see him standing in front of her with those roses. He was everything she wasn't, and that was so wonderful, she can't even describe it. And he was her best friend, truly; he knew her better than even her own sister.

And just everything was nice and safe and wonderful and everything was going to be okay with him, and now - well, now she isn't so sure. She doesn't know what's going to happen to her, or her daughter (nevermind what to even _tell _her daughter). And it was never supposed to happen this way.

But then she shouldn't have chosen to be a spy. She knew what could happen. There is no such thing as a normal romance in the covert community (or a normal life, for that matter). But this is the fate that she has chosen, and somewhere, someplace that's okay with her.

It's better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all, right?

At least, that's what she tells herself.

That's what she'll always tell herself.

* * *

They're both assholes.

He over analyzes everything and is too sarcastic and biting and ironic, and much, much too serious with a permanent stick up his ass. She is loud and brash and speaks her mind and always is ready to pick a fight with someone.

In theory, they should be perfect for each other.

Or maybe they should be a disaster, neither of them know anything about theory.

And of course, they are much more the latter than the former. Sometimes they're the former, but mostly (nearly always) they're the latter.

But oh well, she likes a little chaos. He hates it, and that's only where their differences begin. Sometimes he hates her, sometimes he loves her, it's really a matter of the day and his mood and most importantly, _her _mood. And really, he kind of wants to stab someone with a fork when he's with her for too long.

Then Buenos Aires happens.

Her wet hair is plastered all over her face and he can see her breath and her big green eyes are staring back at him and - then there's kissing. And it includes tongue (and sex). And honestly, he thinks _fuck everything he ever though about her, he loves this girl_.

But there's a reasons they don't talk about Buenos Aires. Basically, nothing whatsoever happens between them when they get back to their normal lives, though both of them, way deep down, really want something to happen.

So they go back to hating each other again, but not _really_ hating each other - more like longing mixed with regret with a lot of frustration. It was a nice, coherent relationship for a split second, but now it's back to being a hot mess. It's like, if the normal, ideal relationship could be pictured as a butterfly, there's is a Tyrannosaurus Rex.

And then they're don't really talk until Italy, and it's awkward, to say the least. Mostly because she can tell he's checking out her ass and because she found out her brother-in-law is dead, and she blames herself, and she can't stop crying.

He holds her hand and she pretty much freezes when she realizes _this is nice_ and her mind goes back to Buenos Aires and she remembers that she has had this wonderful nice feeling before.

How she can love someone and also hate them passionately at the same time, she has no idea but it makes her want a drink.

They're both stuck in this place that neither of them have been in before. They don't know what to do with their feelings, their thoughts, their actions, their hearts. It makes everyone uncomfortable, least of all them.

And they'll stay there, indefinitely. Until someone does something, they'll stay there.

But in truth, neither of them ever will do anything because they're scared and the cycle will start again. Cycles are vicious, vicious beings, but it's also so typically _them._ And whether they break the cycle, and really, truly become something, time will tell.

But they will. They're spies, for christ's sake.

They practically do this for a living.

* * *

It starts like this:

They're drunk.

Okay, that sounds bad, but they just completed a particularly tricky mission that had involved the Brazilian ambassador to Portugal and a straightening iron, and they're celebrating.

They stumble back to their hotel, and she lands on the couch in a rather uncouth manner, a tangle of long, creamy limbs and wild auburn waves. She's laughing and he's laughing too and all of a sudden, her lips are on his. The taste of alcohol lingers on her tongue and her sharp nails dig into his shoulders.

And all of a sudden, she's on top of him, letting out a choked moan when his teeth sink in to her porcelain neck in a desperate attempt to mark her as _his (not her country's, not the Circle's, __his__)_. Hands are fumbling under clothes, and his heart just about stops when she gasps his name against his skin when she's overcome in her release.

It starts with drunken fucking on an uncomfortable couch in Lisbon.

But they're more than that. Or maybe they aren't, he doesn't really know anymore.

All he knows that is she's _different_. She was spontaneous and reckless and rebellious to a fault, but when she comes back from that one mission with the baggage of a dead fiancée and a young son, she's nearly unrecognizable. Her black eyes are colder than he's ever seen them, and with a cruel, sadistic smirk turned up at the world, he's afraid something has snapped in her.

He's scared for her, and he's also scared for himself; god knows _he_'d be the one to fall in love with a psychopath. And oh, how far she's fallen into the deep depths of terrorism and other unsavory past times. Whenever she sees her know, she's just a broken shell of what she used to be. A lot of people don't know that once upon a time, she was actually human.

And he can see the demons swimming in her eyes when she stares off into space, while they fill her head with false, irrational thoughts that drive her to the brink of madness. And she'll shout at him when he asks - _You can never help, you can never understand, _and he just pulls her face right up to his, foreheads lock and he'll whisper _tell me and I'll try_.

Sometimes he finds her crying. Sobbing into a pillow, makeup smeared. He'll hold her, and she immediately leans in to his arms and it _hurts _so much because he _knows _that she's suffering and therefore, he suffers too.

She never tells him. She's stubborn, but honestly, he thinks she's afraid, too. But he accepts what he gets from her: rough sex in empty hallways and fancy dinners in luxurious restaurants, her elegant fingers moving against his and she leans closer with a wry, red painted grin.

He accepts this because at least he's near her, and he knows really that he's the only one who can possibly save her from herself. Why he decided to take this great task upon himself, he doesn't know. Maybe he's a masochist. Maybe he's just born to be a savior.

And he will _not _give up. He tells her that, with no uncertainty in his voice, and she will nod slightly, and when her eyes meet his, there is light in them once again.


End file.
